


i'll raise my head singing

by cacowhistle



Series: ad astra per aspera [8]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, it's a two-parter this time, it's plot time babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacowhistle/pseuds/cacowhistle
Summary: Every nation needs a good witch-hunt every now and again. Unfortunate that Technoblade and Philza are at the center of it.L'manburg makes some discoveries. The little rag-tag family that's formed up north has to deal with the consequences.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: ad astra per aspera [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060727
Comments: 39
Kudos: 335





	1. one, two, is it true?

_This,_ Fundy thinks, _is a terrible idea._

Their cabinet is filled with them. The country was founded on a terrible idea, wrapped up in pretty words about freedom from tyranny. It was all an awful, awful idea, pitched by an awful man who had everyone fooled with his silver tongue and sly eyes, and Fundy is the terrible result of that awful man, broken and horrible and breaking even further still under his awful legacy.

This does not mean, however, that he is unafraid of following in his footsteps. This is a terrible idea, and Fundy will see it to fruition, even if it snatches away one of his precious lives.

He knows Quackity feels the same.

Fundy walks along the elevated walkways that make up L’manburg, these days, footsteps lighter than how he feels. His heart beats, quick and heavy and unforgiving as he considers everything that’s led to this decision.

He’s doing it for L’manburg. For Wilbur, at the end of the day, because everything he does is for Wilbur--the sick, twisted memory he has of a father who didn’t care about him. And yet he still carries on his legacy, in the hopes that he can do him proud.

_(He ignores the voice that whispers **he loved Technoblade more than he ever loved you,** and pushes on.)_

The spruce door feels tall and forboding. It’s just a spruce door, they’re used all over the damn country. Fundy knocks, twice, a lingering pause between the two. The place smells musty and faintly of netherite--Fundy knows Quackity’s been preparing gear all day. He can’t let him do this alone--he’ll fucking die, he knows he will. And Fundy can’t stand by and watch another person he cares about fall.

“Fundy,” Quackity greets when he opens the door. Fundy smiles, all tight and tense.

“Hey Big Q.” He nods, slightly. “May I come in?”

Quackity steps back from the door, sweeping an arm outwards. “Always, man.”

They’re both equally tense, equally silent as they enter the house. Fundy settles on the edge of the couch. Quackity doesn’t sit down. They stare at each other, a dozen things going unspoken. Quackity inclines his head, a bit--an unspoken question, a _will you help me?_

“I’ll convince Tubbo,” Fundy breathes, “and if I can’t… I’ll ask Dream for help.”

“About that,” Quackity says, stiffening. Fundy’s ears flick back. “I was suspicious of Tubbo the other night and followed him out. Do you know where he went?”

Something about that sentence makes Fundy’s skin crawl with how violating it all seems. Quackity takes his silence as cue to continue.

“He led me right to Technoblade’s house,” Quackity says, gaze dark.

Fundy feels like he’s stopped breathing entirely, for a moment. “What?”

“We can’t trust him anymore, Fundy.” Quackity shakes his head. “He’s on their side. He always fucking has been.”

“No,” Fundy says, voice cracking, “that’s--Quackity you know how fucking horrible that sounds, don’t you?”

“I saw it with my own fuckin’ eyes,” Quackity snaps, and Fundy flinches. “So. Our only choice is Dream, now.”

Fundy breathes in. Breathes out. Tries to calm his racing heart to no avail--this can’t be happening, he thinks, none of this can be real. When did they all get so fucked up, he wonders? Was it Manburg? Was it the founding? Was it the first war?

When did they all go so wrong?

“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll talk to Dream.”

* * *

They meet later that night, beneath the old beech tree on the water. It’s the same old spot, and Fundy leans against the trunk of it just so, an echo of their younger days. Barely even a year ago. It feels like fucking decades. He keeps his arms crossed and gaze trained on the ground, lost in thought as he waits.

He remembers, in the early days of L’manburg, when he would sneak out at night. He’d get past whoever was on watch and go out to the river and wait, eager and excited, blood rushing with adrenaline. He was doing something dangerous, playing a game that could cost him everything, going to see Dream like this. He almost misses it, that danger, the feeling of knowing he had this little secret in the face of everything. He didn’t realize it at the time, but everything around him… it was _more_ than he was. He wanted something where he was more than everything else.

And he’d gotten that, with Dream. Until Wilbur found out.

A hand taps the top of his head, just between his ears. He looks up to see Dream’s face, unmasked, the young man sitting on one of the branches.

“Hey,” he says, softly. Fundy’s heart hurts at the sight of his gentle smile.

“Hi,” he rasps. He clears his throat, stepping back. Keeping his distance. “It’s been a while.”

“So it has,” Dream says, dropping down from the branches. “How can I help you?”

Fundy takes a deep breath. “We’re going to arrest Technoblade and Philza. We need your help.”

Dream’s eyes light up. “Arrest them?”

There’s something unsettling about how interested Dream looks, in that possibility. Fundy nods, slowly. “We just need to get Tubbo out of the way, too. He’s working with them.”

Dream leans back, eyes widening with surprise. “No,” he says, sounding almost horrified. “Is he really?”

Fundy shrugs, helplessly. “Quackity saw it. We don’t know what to do about him.”

There’s a moment of quiet, but then Dream grins, eyes lighting up. Something about it feels dangerous, and not in the way sneaking out to meet him here when he was younger did. It feels dangerous in the way where lives are on the line. It feels dangerous in the way where Fundy is about to be misled into the abyss.

“Well,” Dream says, looking like the cat that got the canary, “there’s always the prison.”

Fundy’s stomach drops, but he pushes onwards.

“I’m listening,” he says, leaning forward.

Dream smiles. Fundy ignores the fear it makes him feel.

* * *

_Something is wrong._

It’s with that unpleasant certainty that Technoblade wakes up in the morning. The voices are restless, murmuring and muttering to themselves--possibly to him as well, not that he’s quite paying attention to their demands. There’s a certain anxiety beneath the words, a repeating mantra of misery, a _something is wrong_ cacophony _something is wrong_ of _something is wrong--_

“Would you stop that?” Techno hisses. The voices recede, a tad.

He rolls out of bed, stretching. His spine cracks as he does so, and he grimaces as his shoulders pop. He gathers his hair into a loose ponytail, just enough to keep it out of his face for now. Maybe he’ll ask Wilbur to braid it, once he’s up.

The voices are still muttering. Techno can’t quite rid of the uneasy feeling that’s settled over his shoulders like one of his capes.

He makes his way downstairs, and tries to move on with his day regardless.

* * *

“You ready?” Quackity asks.

Fundy watches Sam lead Tubbo away. Ranboo watches, hopelessly. Fundy thinks he can’t quite feel anything anymore.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says.

They step through the nether portal, and Fundy knows he cannot turn back now.

* * *

“Father,” Wilbur deadpans, perched on the counter in the kitchen as Philza comes through the front door.

“Son,” Phil replies, just as monotone.

“Accomplices,” Techno says, flatly, seated at the table and sipping his coffee.

Tommy stands in the doorway from the hall, blanket draped around his shoulders. “You are all so fucking weird.”

Phil busts out laughing at that, hanging up his coat and his hat as he pushes the door shut behind him with one foot. Wilbur keeps his expression as deadpan as possible, but he can’t help the tiny grin breaking through.

“See anything while you were out?” Techno asks, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand. Tommy sinks into a chair at the table, stealing Techno’s mug to sniff it. He pushes it back a moment later, wrinkling his nose with disgust.

“Only thing was that I went to check on that weird portal,” Phil says, not quite meeting any of their eyes, “and it was lit, today.”

Wilbur sits up a bit more, frowning. “What weird portal?”

Tommy looks towards Wilbur, alarmed, and Phil and Techno share a concerned glance.

Wilbur falters, curling in on himself a bit, a nervous laugh breaking free. “Aw, fuck, did I forget?”

“It’s--there was a broken nether portal, about a mile off from the old ruined one we fixed up. Like someone went through the portal for the first time from the other side, and it manifested a new one,” Phil says, gently. “You went and looked at it with me about a week ago.”

Wilbur nods, slowly. “Okay. Right.”

Tommy’s gaze slides to the window as they fall into indistinct chattering about their chores or whatever fucking else they have to do today--he’s not looking forward to being dragged out of the house. It’s one of those days where he just kind of wants to curl up and sleep for most of it. He woke up with an awful feeling and nausea writhing in his gut, and it’s just gotten worse since then.

Something just _feels_ wrong, sitting here acting like nothing’s going on.

… which is odd, because it doesn’t seem like anything is going on.

Tommy frowns, squinting out the window. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, there. It’s just snow, the open field around the cabin, the dark treeline, Quackity and Fundy coming out of the trees in full netherite armor--

He freezes where he sits, eyes widening.

“Um,” Tommy starts, and all conversation stops. He nods at the window. “We have. Company.”

Techno’s up before any of them can say a word, peering out the window into the snow. His shoulders tense--Tommy assumes he’s seen the same sight he did. He doesn’t know if he should be worried or not, but the way Techno immediately moves for his armor and axe tells him everything he needs to know. Phil begins moving as well, peering out the window.

“Well, shit,” he says. “It’s them and Ranboo. Dream might be with them, if they didn’t get our location from Ranboo.”

Tommy’s brain practically stutters to a stop, at that. Almost instantly, a tremble starts up in his fingers. He clutches at Phil’s sleeve. “What?”

“Take Tommy,” Phil says in lieu of an answer, voice firm as he shoves the smaller boy into Wilbur’s arms, “hide up in the attic, in the space behind the bookshelves, and _do not come out_ until we give the all clear.”

Wilbur nods, tugging Tommy along--he’s shaking, Wilbur notes, eyes darting rapidly between the three of them and the window, jumping to the door at the sudden, harsh knocking--loud and angry on the front door. Wilbur hoists him up--it’s a bit difficult, considering he’s a sixteen year old kid and Wilbur was resurrected just barely a month ago, at this rate, give or take a week, but they make it up to the enchantment set-up and Wilbur pushes Tommy back behind the bookshelves.

He goes without a word. The only sound he makes is his rapidfire breathing, uneven and afraid.

“Tommy, hey,” Wilbur says, softly, “it’s gonna be fine.”

“He’s gonna find me,” Tommy whispers, shaking hands clamped around the hem of his shirt.

“He’s _not_ going to find you,” Wilbur murmurs, sternly, “and if he does, I’ll kill him.”

Outside, Techno and Phil face down their visitors--three young men of L’manburg, donned in netherite and diamond. Techno adjusts his grip on his axe, scowling at Quackity, Fundy, and Ranboo--two of whom look incredibly uncomfortable and like they’d much rather not be here, one who looks tired, and one who looks furious. Quackity is holding a sword, glowering right back at Technoblade and Philza.

“Technoblade, you’re under arrest for crimes and acts of terrorism against the nation of L’manburg. Philza, you are under arrest for hiding and accompanying a war criminal. We’d appreciate it if you would come quietly, make this easy on all of us,” Quackity says, sounding awful bold for a man who’s just trespassed and put Techno’s--Techno’s _family_ in danger.

He has the audacity to show up and just demand they go with him? Techno has to laugh--and he does, even, a sharp and unamused bark that makes Fundy and Ranboo glance at each other, nervously.

“Yeah,” he drawls, “nah. I don’t think so.”

Mentally assessing the scene before him, Techno figures they can handle this fight. He doesn’t have good potions, but they don’t seem to either, and Phil and Techno are far more capable and confident in battle than they’ve ever been.

And judging by the way Ranboo keeps looking at the house like he’s afraid of it, Techno figures not all of them are really going to _fight,_ either.

“I’d suggest,” Phil says, stepping forward, “you get the fuck off’a our property, mate.”

Quackity sighs. “Alright. We’re doing this the hard way.”

Glass shatters across Techno’s head and face before he can react, and he stumbles backwards with a shout of surprise. Phil darted back, away from the splash, and broken glass litters purplish-grey-stained snow. The scent of vinegar and something rotten fills Techno’s senses, overwhelming him, and he recognizes it as a weakness potion.

Fuck.

They did come prepared.

His head already feels fuzzy, between the potion and the voices, and he knows he needs to act fast, before they can take him down. He swings his axe at the closest enemy, limbs feeling heavy and laden with something like lead. He hits his mark, though, and hears Quackity swear.

It’s a short scuffle--Phil chases Ranboo to the treeline, where he idles, watching the rest of it go down. Phil circles back to help Techno with Quackity, and eventually gets him pinned to the snow, one boot pressing hard into his chest while Techno staggers towards the house--he needs to get milk, or something, even just a strength potion or a healing one to reverse this before it knocks him out.

His vision blurs as he approaches the stairs of the porch, but he recognizes the bright russet ears of Fundy, who’s standing at the top of them with a flint and steel in hand.

“Stop,” Fundy says, voice firm. Techno thinks his hands might be shaking, but that could just be the fact that he can’t see straight.

“What’re you…” It takes him far longer than he’d like to admit to put the pieces together. His eyes widen. “Don’t. Fundy, don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ set th’ house’n fire.”

Fundy grins, bright-eyed and bushy-fucking-tailed, and Techno wants to claw that grin off his face, Wilbur be damned. “Or what?”

A swift kick is delivered to Techno’s chest, sending him toppling back down the stairs with a yelp. He hears Phil shout his name, then a pained cry and a grunt, and an impact with the snow. He tilts his head a bit to see Quackity pinning Phil, now, foot planted on the burnt and shriveled part of his wing. Rage simmers in his chest, white-hot and loud, the voices shrieking their displeasure, if he could just make himself _move._

He can’t lift his arms. He grunts with pain as a hand curls in his hair, tugging his head up. He sees a flash of green by the treeline, and a familiar porcelain mask--he swears again, but it all kind of slurs together, and he can’t quite keep his eyes open anymore.

 _We’re fucked,_ is the last thing he thinks before it all goes dark.

Up in the attic, Wilbur watches out the window, hand pressed over his mouth as to not make a sound. He watches Techno collapse in the snow, watches Quackity slam his foot into the base of Phil’s left wing, chokes back a terrified cry. He can’t--he can’t risk Tommy’s safety to try and save them. He’s more likely to faint, rather than be able to use his powers if he goes out there to confront them.

He thought he’d broken through to Tubbo. But here L’manburg is, at their doorstep. Although--he hasn’t seen Tubbo at all. It only makes his stomach twist with fear.

“Wilbur?” Tommy whispers, behind him, and Wilbur shakes his head.

“We have to wait, Tommy, they’re--” he chokes on his own words as he watches Fundy tug Techno up by the hair.

“Wilbur, what’s going on--” Tommy begins moving towards the window, but Wilbur pushes him back, a little more roughly than he means to.

“Don’t,” he warns, “just--just stay where you are. I’ll come back up to get you.”

Wilbur shuts the door behind him, not waiting for an answer. He hears Tommy call after him and guilt writhes in his gut--he knows he’s scaring him, but he can’t just sit and watch his father and friend get dragged off.

He barely has time to shove his boots on before he’s slammed the door open and sprinted down the porch stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Stop!” Wilbur shrieks, directed at Quackity, whose just lifted his axe as if he’s about to lodge it in Phil’s wing, and the battlefield freezes.

“Stop it,” Wilbur gasps, icy panic threading his words alongside the thrum of Eden’s magic. Quackity drops the axe, but does not move from where he’s positioned over Phil’s unmoving body.

“Ghostbur?” Fundy’s voice cracks, and Wilbur turns his wild, horrified eyes on his son.

“Get away from them,” Wilbur demands, “right now.”

“You’re gonna fuck right off and not tell us what to do, actually,” Quackity says, lifting Phil off the ground.

“I _said,_ ” Wilbur snarls, voice going low and lilting, and he hears Fundy’s breath hitch, “get the _fuck_ away from--”

An arrow flies past Wilbur’s head, narrowly missing its mark. He swears, ducking behind the porch for cover. Fuck, he doesn’t know what to _do_.

A hand comes from behind and claps itself over his mouth, another arm wrapping around his torso and pinning him to someone’s chest. Wilbur freezes, smells oak wood and gunpowder and netherite. Familiar leather gloves adorn the hands on him, and he knows it to be Dream.

He thinks of Tommy inside, and any voice of reason inside of him goes out the window.

Wilbur _bites_ Dream’s hand when he spots Quackity and Fundy beginning to carry Phil and Techno away, earning a pained shout from Dream. He elbows him in the gut, scrabbling to get away from him, breathlessly shouting after the other three as Ranboo joins the little group.

“Stop!” Wilbur shrieks again, “Please, don’t hurt them--they--please don’t--”

He’s knocked face first into the snow, and gasps for air as Dream presses his boot into his back.

“Please,” he croaks, but they’ve already made it past the treeline. They’re gone.

“Aw,” Dream drawls, slow and dangerous, “that’s a shame.”

Heart still racing, Wilbur assesses his options. Dream has him pinned to the fucking ground, but if he can just throw him off and get some strength back in him, he can still chase after Techno and Phil and try to get them back. Dream hums, still holding him down.

“Now that the other two are out of the picture,” he says, as if he hasn’t just ripped everything away from Wilbur, “I can take care of you, and get _my_ Tommy back.”

“He’s not yours,” Wilbur grits out, unmoving.

Dream grabs a fistful of Wilbur’s white-streaked hair, tugs his head back so he’s forced to look him in the eye. Wilbur grunts in pain, trying to twist out of his grasp.

“Easy, little songbird,” Dream coos. “It’ll be a short nap. And I’ll get Tommy right out of your pretty hair.”

Dream yanks up the back of his shirt, and it’s such a violating and _weird_ course of action that Wilbur’s stunned to shocked silence for a few moments as ice-cold air hits bare skin. He hears glass shatter before he feels it tear into his back and cries out, the scent of vinegar and rotten flesh sharp in the air around him. Weakness potion--he knows it well, after brewing them for so long while he was dead. It seeps into his skin, and Wilbur swears--he’s never been good at resisting potion effects.

Suddenly, though, Wilbur feels more _alive._ It’s like he’s been pumped with a strength potion, a momentary boost of adrenaline hitting. He doesn’t have time to question it--he just moves, throws Dream off of him with a snarl, sending him stumbling sideways.

“Get the fuck away from the house,” Wilbur says, voice dark, and he just _knows_ the bastard is smiling under that mask.

“Not until I get what I came here for,” Dream says, and Wilbur lunges forward in an attempt to tackle him. Dream dodges it like it’s easy as breathing, and maybe it is, for him.

Wilbur glares, drawing himself up to his full height, shifting his weight from foot to foot. There’s something dangerous in his eyes, and briefly, he closes them. Summoning up all the strength he can muster, he reaches for the magic in his veins and when his eyes open again they’re struck through with gold, like the honey-drip of Eden’s sunsets that he can recall from his youth. His feathers ruffle and Wilbur lifts his chin, tongue heavy with the weight of his words.

“Leave,” he says, “and don’t come back.”

Dream cocks his head, as though amused. Voices that Wilbur’s only heard a few times before begin to murmur uneasily in the back of his mind.

“No,” Dream says, “I don’t think so.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen with surprise--he hasn’t been able to resist his powers before, he’s pretty sure, what’s different now? He doesn’t have time to ponder it when the voices rise to a steady, panicked hum and Dream throws a punch, sending Wilbur reeling.

He clutches his jaw, taking stumbling steps backwards as Dream begins to advance on him. This is it, he’s going to die again, and Tommy’s going to get caught and it’s all going to go so fucking _wrong._

A sword sticks itself through Dream’s torso from behind, right through the gap in his armor. He makes a choked sound, freezing up. One palm ghosts over the netherite blade--snow melting and mixing with the blood, it must have been laying in the snow. Wilbur stares at it, wondering where the fuck it could have come from.

“I think,” Tommy’s voice says, wavering, “you should go, Dream.”

“Tommy,” Dream gasps, all but sliding off of the blade and stumbling forward, collapsing to his knees. Tommy backpedals, backing away towards the small stone altar on the edge of the property.

 _Kill him,_ the voices whisper as Wilbur gazes down at Dream.

When he looks up to meet Tommy’s eyes, he notes the way they widen as the voices begin to rise, louder and louder.

_Does he hear it too?_

The sword drops to the snow. Wilbur crosses to pull Tommy into his arms, the both of them sinking down next to the altar. The wound on Dream’s torso begins to knit itself together, but he refuses to come closer--whether it’s because of them or the altar, Wilbur can’t be sure. Dream paces for a minute, then sighs.

“Fine,” he snarls, spitting blood into the snow. “But you can’t hide behind the blood god forever.”

Dream begins to limp back towards the treeline, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

Wilbur hugs Tommy to his chest, the two of them silent and shaking. They stay there until sundown.

The voices whisper all the while.


	2. is it true what he said?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno faces his execution.

Phil, quite frankly, is _pissed off._

He’s almost impressed by the sheer boldness of the entire confrontation. He’s _almost_ amused, almost in awe of the stunt that’s been pulled. Limp, allowing himself to be carried, lulling them into a false sense of security, he seethes at the sight of Techno’s unconscious body being dumped into a boat. Again: it almost impresses him.

But mostly, it just makes him fucking angry.

He stays silent, waiting, as if a chance will appear out of nothingness for him to make his escape with Techno in tow. It would be a whole lot easier if Techno was awake, but his deep, even breathing and the awful stench of weakness potion is a painful reminder of where they’re at, right now. Techno doesn’t respond when Quackity shoves him further into the boat. He looks fragile, like this, being treated like dead weight. Phil is afraid of how they plan to cut him off.

He lands in the boat next, suppressing a grunt as he lands awkwardly on his wrist, and tries to force himself to relax into Techno’s prone body.

It’s now or never, if he’s going to make a run for it. They’re just bringing him back to L’manburg, so they said. Phil will just have to believe them.

He can’t fly away. They’re more likely to just shoot him down. But his trident is nestled safely in his inventory, and they’re pushing off from the shore. If he can just wait until they’re too far to turn back...

They’re barely a mile out when Phil flips himself over the edge of the boat, and plunges into the icy depths of the ocean.

He hears Fundy shout and Quackity swear, but his trident is in his hand and he’s gone, moving through the water so quickly it almost feels like flying, wings tucked tight against his back as he tries to gather as much speed as possible, throwing himself with the enchanted weapon like his life depends on it.

Technically, it does.

He doesn’t stop throwing himself forward for what seems like an eternity. He savors the weightless feeling of the riptide enchantment, spreads his wings out like he’s soaring, and in a sense he almost is. He spots a dolphin coming up from below, and it rides in his wake, spurring him on faster. He feels the magic of its grace thrumming in the bones of his wings and he flaps them once, twice, and launches himself out of the water.

The feathers, cold and wet, still manage to catch the air--flying hurts, it isn’t sustainable for very long, but if he can just get back to the cottage, back to Wilbur and Tommy, he can figure out a plan from there. For a few moments, he savors the feeling of flying without pain as the dolphin’s grace imbues him with strength, his wings feel powerful and uninjured as he swoops downwards, coasting over the tops of the trees. He misses this, the freedom that comes with throwing himself into the sky and reaching towards the clouds like they’re capable of reaching back.

Despite the fear, he _laughs_ , a terrified yet triumphant sound. He got away. _He got away._ He isn’t entirely useless, he’s just as strong as he used to be. It takes more than some manhandling to defeat Philza, and he’s going to show them exactly why they should not have trifled with the Angel of Death.

He’s not just going to let them murder Technoblade--that isn’t an option.

He doesn’t leave family behind. Not anymore.

* * *

It’s with a certain sort of grogginess that Techno wakes. Vision blurring, he tries to blink himself back to clarity. His thoughts are slow, sluggish, hard to pull together as he sits up, slowly, groaning. Everything aches, and he grunts as he lists to the side, tipping against cold iron. It presses into his cheek, ice-cold, and he grimaces, trying to pull himself up into a proper sitting position. He can’t quite summon the strength. His limbs all feel weak, like he’s sick, and there’s a tremble in his fingers as he reaches up to wrap a hand around the iron bar before him.

He’s in a cage, he realizes, finally. That’s a bit fucked, he thinks, and he briefly wonders why the fuck he’s in a cage. The lights of L’manburg are bright and blinding around him, and--

Oh. Right.

Panic flaring, Techno struggles to pull himself to his feet, trying to pull himself together. The weakness potion is still in his system, or maybe they’ve given him another dose, because he struggles to even stand upright. Metal clinks against metal as he lifts a hand, and he notices the shackles around his wrists.

They aren’t cursed, is the first thing he notices. Those would _burn,_ he’d be able to tell if they had binding on them. Thank the gods they don’t, he supposes, because that would make escaping far harder. He can probably break these no problem.

Nobody’s even watching him, right now. But he sees a dispenser at the top of the cage, and he’s a bit nervous to try anything. He doesn’t know what will happen next--which is odd and uncomfortable and Techno decidedly doesn’t like it, this uncertainty. He wants to be at home, with Phil and Wilbur and Tommy, with his dogs and his bees and his horse. He’s afraid, he realizes, almost numbly--he’s terrified, to be quite frank, L’manburg’s got him in a position he has avoided for so long, and now he’s trapped like a fox with a foxtrap biting into its leg, sharp and cruel iron that bites and tears the flesh with no remorse.

He didn’t think Tubbo would put them up to something like this. He doesn’t think Tubbo would approve, in all honesty. Maybe he’s had an out-of-sight villain arc, Techno thinks bitterly, glaring out at L’manburg.

He doesn’t know what to do. That’s a first, for him.

Not only that, but gods know what happened to Phil. Fear and panic courses through him briefly, again, at the thought-- _is he okay?_

Techno casts his gaze about the podium. He doesn’t see any other cages like the one he’s in, doesn’t see any signs of scuffles or anything like that. Maybe Phil got away. He hopes Phil got away--he doesn’t know what he’d do if Phil was as trapped as he is.

(He does know, deep down, what he would do. He would tear the shackles with his bare hands, hunt down Quackity and Fundy and claw them open with his own two hands, rip the flesh from their backs with his tusks. He would paint the wooden walkways with their blood and entrails, fueled by the fury and the fire of his god.)

He’s broken from his panic by the sound of footsteps. He tenses at the sight of Quackity, short and pissed and wielding a battleaxe crafted from netherite, the smooth purple metal struck through with veins of diamond. Techno pulls back from the bars, silently staring Quackity down, as if his eyes alone will scare the butcher away. Quackity simply draws closer. There’s a keyring on his belt, Techno notes through his tired, sluggish thoughts. He could try to steal it. He doesn’t trust his shaky, failing hands right now, but maybe once the potion wears off a bit more he can make his move.

“Morning, Techno,” Quackity says as if he hasn’t kidnapped and imprisoned him. “Glad to see the potion didn’t kill you.”

“Weakness potions don’t do that,” Techno snaps back, leaning back against the bars.

“Maybe not to you,” Quackity says, chipper. Techno doesn’t know what the fuck that means, and does not intend to find out.

He just glares, silently, waiting for Quackity to do whatever he’s here for. He hears the flick of a lever and tenses. The dispenser above his head begins to whir.

He smells the potion before he feels it. The weakness potion is launched out, raining down on his back and shoulders, and Techno swears, trying to duck away from the worst of it. There’s not enough space, and he still gets hit with most of it.

“You’re horrible,” Techno grits out, “you’re just a bad person.”

Quackity shrugs. “I’m not the one who committed war crimes.”

“That’s such a lie,” Techno mutters, words slurring together as he leans his weight further back onto the bars, eyelids drooping.

That earns a snort. He barely hears it. “And you’re such a beacon of honesty.”

Techno doesn’t quite remember the last time he purposefully lied with bad intentions. Any time he has, it was to protect someone (protect Tommy, he thinks, so many things he’s done have been for Tommy, lately) or for the greater good. He’s been fairly upfront, he thinks, all things considered. He’s surprised people are so angry with him for doing things he said he would do.

“Phil’s gonna kill you,” Techno says, “and Wilbur, n’ Tommy. They’re gonna kick your ass.”

Quackity barks a laugh. “Sure they will. If they get here in time.”

The door of the cage opens, and Quackity leans in, tugging Techno closer by the hair. Techno grunts with pain and swats at his hands--the weakness potion causes him to miss his mark entirely. He grimaces as Quackity only drags him further, throwing him against the iron bars, hand still gripping his hair.

“Watch the hair,” he snaps. “S’the one thing I want t’ survive whatever this is.”

“Yeah,” Quackity says, sounding unimpressed, “sure.”

Techno can’t make himself move as Quackity pins him to the ground with a foot on his back. He can’t quite pull his thoughts together enough to realize what’s going on--it takes the sound of an axe scraping across wood for him to realize the danger, and when he does, he doesn’t have the strength to react as the blade is positioned over his neck.

It presses into his neck and Techno attempts to wrench himself out of Quackity’s grasp, to no avail. The blade presses down so hard it draws blood, then, and Techno finds that he’s actually afraid.

“Quit moving,” Quackity snarls, “or I’ll cut more than just your fucking hair.”

Techno goes still, at that, and he can’t help the way he tears up. He hears the awful sound of hair being cut and a weight is lifted from his head and transferred to his shoulders all at once, literal and metaphorical in the same breath. He chokes on a sob, trembling so badly he thinks he might break apart.

Quackity says something that Techno’s fairly certain is supposed to be a threat. He doesn’t quite hear it.

He gathers a few pink strands in his shaking hands, clutching them so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

Technoblade does not put his faith in gods.

But just this once, he thinks he can make an exception.

“Please,” he whispers once Quackity has walked away. “I need your help.”

There is a warmth in his chest that breaks through the nausea of the weakness potion, and a low-set murmuring that he can’t quite decipher. It’s almost comforting, the soft words of his patron, and Caedis gives him her favor as he drifts off again, unable to fight off the potion.

 _Patience,_ she murmurs.

_All good things come to those who wait._

* * *

Wilbur’s trying to calm down. He really is, he’s doing his best, and all things considered he thinks he’s kept it together pretty well.

But now that they’re safe, at least for the moment, the adrenaline is leaving his system, and he isn’t so focused on keeping Tommy safe. His hands won’t stop shaking, a deep-set tremor that makes it impossible to do anything. All he can think about is Dream’s hand over his mouth and arm pressed against his chest, Dream pinning him to the ground like a helpless little bird.

Everything about it was violating and awful and it reminds him, faintly, of days long gone, when Wilbur wanted to rig his kingdom and country and home with dynamite. When Wilbur sought out that familiar touch, that familiar voice, because Dream was the only one who understood what he wanted, then. Because at least he knew he could trust that Dream only wanted the worst for him--at least he was _honest,_ at least he _knew_ just how awful Dream was _._

God, he can’t stop fucking shaking. Tommy is in the house, Tommy is _safe,_ and Wilbur’s still having a breakdown because _god,_ what if he’d died, or worse? What if they’d lost everything again?

He tries not to think about it too hard, shaking hands working the brewing stand as he finishes a harming and a healing potion. He needs to test something. He hears Tommy’s footsteps, uncertain and light in that nervous way he’s taken to prowling about the house these days, and Wilbur tries to calm his racing heart, still his shaking hands.

“Wilbur?” Tommy pokes his head through the door, and Wilbur nearly drops the potion he’s holding.

“Yeah?” He asks, turning to face the younger boy. Tommy’s pulled on his chestplate, is buckling up his boots as he enters. Wilbur frowns.

“I’m not just letting them run off with them,” Tommy says it like he’s challenging Wilbur.

Wilbur stares at him. “No. You’re not going. You’re staying here, and _I’m_ going. Fucking hell, Tommy, you’d get yourself killed.”

“We don’t exactly have the time to argue about it,” Tommy snaps back, “I’m going with you.”

Wilbur grits his teeth, uncorking the harming potion. He needs to test it. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Tommy!” Wilbur shouts, slamming a shaking hand against the counter. Tommy freezes. “You’re. Not. Going. It’s too dangerous, I don’t want you to fucking die, you stupid fucking-- _child.”_

Tommy is silent for a few long moments, staring at him. Wilbur’s almost uncomfortable with how closely the kid scrutinizes him, eyes roaming across him. His expression is guarded, carefully, and Wilbur is put off by the fact that he can’t tell what Tommy’s feeling. He’s always been able to see it on his face. But here, right now, Tommy hides whatever emotion it is, and it’s almost frightening, how different of a person he’s become.

“Yeah, because _you_ can take on all of L’manburg on your own,” he finally snaps back. Wilbur can see how he falters, though, and guilt worms its way through him.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Wilbur argues, holding his hand over the sink as he tips the harming potion onto the tip of one of his fingers.

“What the fuck are you--” Tommy cuts himself off, eyes wide as he stares at Wilbur’s hand, as if he expects the potion to start eating through the flesh, as harming so often does.

It doesn’t. Instead, Wilbur’s hand feels warm, almost, less cold and stiff than it’s been in the weeks following his resurrection. He flexes his fingers, frowning a bit. “Huh.”

“Why,” Tommy says, nervously, “did you do that?”

“Harming potions don’t hurt me anymore,” he says, recorking the bottle. “Apparently. Dream tried to hit me with a weakness one and it had the opposite effect. I was wondering if that went for other potions.”

Tommy blinks, their argument briefly forgotten as he comes up beside Wilbur to peer at his hand. “... huh. That’s fucking weird.”

“You’re fucking weird,” Wilbur says, absentmindedly as he moves back over to the brewing stand, pouring in some blaze powder. He’ll make a few strength ones for Tommy, and a few weakness ones for himself. “If you’re coming with, go get my crossbow.”

Tommy perks up, darting out of the kitchen. Wilbur still can’t push down the fear. He presses his hands against the counter, trying to force his hands to lie still against the smooth stone surface. His fingers still tremble, faintly, and the panic still circles through his mind. He half expects Dream to still be lurking on the outskirts of the property, and the voices that have been muttering and mumbling in the back of his skull since he left begin to rise, agitated at the thought. Wilbur grits his teeth and leans against the counter, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness hits him.

Fuck. Everything has to go wrong right now, doesn’t it? Techno and Phil get arrested, Tommy’s fucking abuser shows up, Wilbur’s forced to use his powers on his son and friends and subsequently sent into a goddamn anxiety attack that’s lasted for more than twenty minutes, at this rate, and now his shitty, semi-undead body is beginning to fail him. Just what he needed.

He uncorks a healing potion, before pausing. He doesn’t know what it’ll do, not really, in light of recent discoveries, but he downs it anyways.

He waits for any pain. None comes, and a warmth begins to spread through him, starting in his chest and blossoming outwards. The healing potion works as normal, then--good. He doesn’t want to think about what might have happened had he tried the harming potion, instead.

The potion gives him enough of a boost to get moving again, headache beginning to fade. His hands still tremble, a bit, but he’s able to pull himself together enough to pack together a quiver of crossbow bolts and some potions for both him and Tommy, with a few extra just in case. He grabs Techno’s trident from his room, tucking it away into his inventory, and takes his crossbow from Tommy upon re-entering the kitchen.

He’s a bit numb, truth be told. It’s all too much for him to properly process, right now. He’ll let himself break down all the way once Techno and Phil are safe.

“Ready to go?” Wilbur asks, just as a thump sounds outside the front door.

The two of them freeze. Wilbur loads his crossbow, ear twitching as he listens--heavy breathing comes from the other side of the door, a rattling wheeze as if they’re beginning to come down with something. There’s a knock on the door, and it’s enough to make Wilbur’s breath hitch--but it’s the solid, sharp three knocks they use to signal each other.

He hesitates a few moments longer, but pulls open the door.

Phil stands on the other side, leaning on his trident and breathing heavy, dripping with water and smelling like the ocean. He smiles, tense and strained.

“Hey mate,” he says, just as Tommy squeaks out: “Phil?”

* * *

Techno surfaces from the cold, dark abyss of unconsciousness to the sound of his own beating heart. It’s loud, distracting, a pounding like that of a drum. He remembers, faintly, the day he had to kill Tubbo, up there on that stage. The stage is gone now--it’s been replaced, he might be on the new one right now--he remembers, bond with the pack or die in front of them. Kill Tubbo, or be killed himself.

He thinks he might’ve taken the coward’s way out, then.

He rolls over, grunting as he props himself up against the iron bars. They bite into his back, cold and aching against his spine, but he has more important worries than that.

There’s still pink, bloodied strands in his hands. His head moves without the familiar weight around it, and Techno fights back tears as he lifts a shaking, heavy hand to tug it through the tangled nest of hair around his head. It used to go all the way down to his waist. Now, it’s maybe half an inch above his shoulders.

He chokes on a displeased, piglinesque sound. It’s awkward and unnatural and he hates it, everything about it. He wants to go home, he thinks, pressing shaking fingers against cold, biting metal. He wants to go home and curl up in his bed with one of his dogs or Tommy, wants to fall asleep in Phil’s arms with his wings securely wrapped around him, wants to lay his head in Wilbur’s lap and let him run his hands through his (now mutilated) hair.

Techno just wants to go home.

He tries to pull himself together. He can’t get out of here if he’s busy breaking down over a fucking haircut (one he didn’t want and didn’t ask for and didn’t agree to--).

“This’s bullshit,” he mutters, staring at a knot in the wood below him.

The space is small, almost uncomfortably so. He doesn’t have enough space to stretch out his legs all the way unless he stands, and his knees are beginning to cramp. He tips his head back, cringing as he shifts his position, spine aching. This is awful, he knows, but it’s almost worse considering how fucking inhumane it all feels. It’s like he’s not even a damn person, in their eyes.

He doesn’t want to admit that it seems to be that way.

Techno grits his teeth and tries to lean forward, attempting to pull himself to his feet. His limbs are heavy with the lingering effects of the weakness potion, but he manages to get to his knees, at the very least. It almost hurts more, this way, but once his vision stops blurring he’s able to see more from this position.

L’manburg is near-empty, at this time of day. The sun is beginning to lower towards the horizon, and the walkways are void of most people. He sees someone slip inside a house just as he looks towards them, but he can’t tell who it is from here.

There’s the faint glimmer of netherite, off in the distance as well. He thinks the nether portal is that way--the tired, scared part of him hopes it’s Tommy or Wilbur. The reasonable part knows it’s far too dangerous for them to come in the middle of the fucking day.

Techno slumps against the iron again, exhausted. He just has to keep waiting. He’ll figure something out--just a little more time, he needs to wait out the weakness potion.

Exhausted, he closes his eyes, and drifts off to the sound of Caedis’ murmuring.

* * *

“What--” Wilbur is already backing away from the door to let him in, nudging him along and shutting the door behind him with the toe of his boot. “What the _fuck,_ Phil, what even--how did you--”

“They were overconfident,” Phil says, breathlessly, leaning his trident against the wall, “and I had a shot. So I ran. Had to leave Techno, though, he was out cold.” He squints at the two of them. “I suppose that’s why the two of you are armed to the fuckin’ teeth?”

Tommy hums, anxiously, peering out the window as if he’s expecting the attackers to come back. “We’re goin’ after him.”

“No,” Phil says, immediately, “what? No. It’s too dangerous for the two of you.”

Immediately, Wilbur and Tommy begin protesting, speaking over each other. Phil doesn’t quite understand a word of it, but the general message is that _we’re going with you whether you like it or not, you old fuck._

So. That settles that, he supposes. They’re already set to go. Phil supposes he might as well hurry up and get his gear together, then, considering how Tommy looks about ready to sprint off without them, and Wilbur looks very close to heading out as well.

Phil moves quickly, gathering up his own supplies, armoring himself and picking up his sword, checking the enchantment runes for a moment before returning to the boys in the kitchen. They’re fine--no need for touching them up. The fire aspect should be good for another few fights, the glyphs don’t seem damaged at all. He sheathes the blade, hand resting over the handle as he steps back into the kitchen.

“Alright,” he says, sighing. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They’re halfway down the nether path when Phil stops, wings extending and feathers ruffling, and Wilbur and Tommy pause behind him (Tommy almost walking into Wilbur’s back). Tommy grumbles, reaching forward to poke Phil between the shoulderblades.

“Why’re we stopped?” He frowns when Phil doesn’t respond save for a _shush, Tommy._

Wilbur cocks his head, ears twitching, faintly, and Tommy sighs and crosses his arms. Being the only human one in the group fucking sucks, he decides, since he can’t hear or _sense_ fucking anything.

“Ranboo,” Phil says, coldly. Tommy jumps, peering around his wing.

The enderman hybrid is standing a few feet in front of them, having just turned the corner, eyes wide. “Uh. Hi. I was actually looking for you.”

Phil draws his sword, earning a terrified squeak of alarm from Ranboo, who stumbles backwards. “Not! Like that, not like that, I uh, not like that. I wanted to help?”

“Why,” Phil growls, “should I believe you?”

“I bend to peer pressure really easily?” The way he says it sounds like a question, more than a statement. Shoulders hunched, Ranboo shifts his weight from foot to foot, uneasily. “I--I really didn’t want any of this to happen, I just--they kept telling me I did, and that I just uh, forgot I’d agreed, and--and I felt bad denying them, and I’m honestly a little scared of Quackity these days, but who isn’t, honestly, and Fundy is also kinda scary, and I just--”

“Okay,” Phil cuts him off, sounding ten times more exhausted than he did before Ranboo began rambling. “I believe you, mate, you’re fine.”

Ranboo perks up. “Good! Good. Uh. So. They’re gonna try to execute him at sundown. Is there anything I can do to help you guys get him out of there?”

Already, Phil is rifling through his satchel. “Yeah, actually, give him this for me, will you?”

Tommy’s eyes widen at the sight of the totem, finely crafted, falling into Ranboo’s hands. Those are rare--he remembers when Phil had explained it to him, weeks ago, the first few days after Wilbur had come back. He’d explained the death-defying magic, how you came back not quite whole, but with the deadliest wounds being far less deadly.

He remembers how Wilbur had come back with blood still pouring from his chest, according to Techno.

(“At least it wasn’t filling his lungs,” he’d said, looking exhausted and vaguely haunted.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Tommy had asked, unusually quiet.

Techno had just smiled, grimly. “He’ll live.”

Wilbur couldn’t look at swords for a week straight.)

Tommy is a little peeved that they’re just trusting Ranboo so easily, truth be told. He’s unreliable and unsettling, never quite picking a side and always bending over backwards to whoever tells him what to do. He’d seen what Dream was doing, but was too afraid to step in, to help him.

Fury rises in his chest, and ever the angry dragon, Tommy expels it like a breath of fire as he steps around Phil’s wing, advancing on Ranboo with his sword drawn.

“How do we know we can trust you?” He growls, ignoring Phil’s heavy sigh and Wilbur’s _for fuck’s sake, Tommy._

Ranboo holds his hands up in surrender, eyes wide. “I promise I’m here to help, I really don’t--”

“You could be lying!” Tommy snaps.

“I’m _not!”_ Ranboo cries, stepping back. “I just--I just want to help, Tommy.”

“You said that before,” Tommy grits out, “during exile, and you didn’t do shit.”

Ranboo doesn’t meet his gaze. “I--I _tried,_ I really did, and I want to make up for it now. Please.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy mutters, but Phil’s hand falls to rest on his shoulder and Tommy knows he’s going to let Ranboo help them, ultimately, because what other choice do they have? “Fine,” he snaps. “But I’m not fuckin’ happy about it.”

He steps back, sidling closer to Wilbur. Wilbur looks a touch frustrated, partially amused, but mostly just determined, at the moment. Guilt worms through Tommy’s gut at the thought that fuck, he’s held them up by getting pissy and distrusting. Techno could be in danger right now, and Tommy’s more worried about shouting at a potential ally than he is about actually getting there to fucking save him.

Tommy keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the trip.

As they reach the nether hub, Phil pauses. “Alright,” he says, voice surprisingly steady, “Wilbur, you know the ins and outs of the city. What do you think the best plan is?”

Wilbur blinks, seemingly startled for a moment--but the surprise melts into determination, and there’s a grim, certain set to his jaw as Wilbur hums, eyes roaming over the portal frame.

“Tommy can be set as lookout on top of the big tower that overlooks the whole place,” he says, nodding to Tommy as he does so. Tommy grumbles, but agrees. “Just message us over comms if you see anyone heading towards us. Ranboo will deliver Techno the totem, and Phil and I will spread out in the city and map out different routes we can lead Techno down when we break him out. If we can, we get him out before this execution. If we can’t, I cause a distraction and Phil gets Techno out of there. Sound good?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy mutters, moving towards the portal. “Sure.”

Ranboo goes through first. As soon as he’s given the all clear from the other side, Tommy throws himself through, Wilbur and Phil following just as eagerly.

They aren’t losing anyone else.

* * *

When Techno next wakes, it’s with a jolt and a hand on his shoulder. He almost fucking bites it, truth be told, the fear and adrenaline spiking through him. He snarls, baring tusks and teeth that could saw through bone if he really tried it. The clawed hand draws back with a yelp, and Techno’s blurry vision settles on a tall, lanky black and white mass that he recognizes as Ranboo even before it clears, a bit.

He pulls back from the bars, feeling an awful lot like a caged animal as Ranboo stares at him, eyes wide.

“Techno?” Ranboo asks, quietly. Techno huffs.

“What,” he grits out. It isn’t a question, more a demand.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I’m sorry, first of all,” Ranboo stutters, softly, glancing around. Techno can’t smell anyone else nearby, but he also can’t smell anything other than weakness potion right now. “I shouldn’t have let them do this to you, I didn’t _want_ to go along with it, but, uh, y’know. I guess I’m a pushover, ha,” he swallows, nervously, before reaching tentatively towards the bars.

“Um,” he says, reaching a hand through, towards Techno’s. “Can I?”

Techno hesitates, lip curling a bit as Ranboo’s fingers brush his own. Slowly, however, he extends his hand, palm up. Ranboo moves his other hand forward, settling both of them over Techno’s own, dropping a surprisingly heavy weight into it. His hand curls around smooth, cold wood, and he brushes his thumb across what feels like gemstones.

The shape of the object is familiar. He’s used them a few times before.

He stares down at the totem of undying with wide eyes.

“I think,” Ranboo says, softly, nervously, “you’re gonna need that.”

He looks up at the kid as he tucks the totem into his belt, hidden by the ragged, untucked tatters of his shirt. As long as they don’t look too closely, it should work. It might be safer to hide it away in his inventory, but then he might not be able to pull it out in time--gods, he doesn’t know, this seems like the safer option for now.

“What do they have planned?” He asks, voice gruff. Ranboo shifts nervously from foot to foot, tilting his head back to peer up at something above Techno’s head.

He looks up as well--the dispenser is gone. He sees a tall structure, and something dangling up above him.

An anvil, he realizes. His blood runs cold. He’s been here long enough for his respawn point to set itself. Several things slot into place very quickly, and Techno’s breath hitches.

They’re going to try and kill him. Completely. Three times in a fucking row.

He takes a deep breath that rattles in his chest, and coughs, briefly. This is fine. The totem will save him, and he can use the anvil that’s dropped as something to climb on. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fucking fine. He can run and get back to the portal and take a detour through the nether to throw them off his trail.

… depending on how much the totem heals him, at least. He cringes at the thought that he might come back to life with a fucking hole through his stomach.

“Thanks, Ranboo,” he finally says, gruffly. Ranboo nods.

“I’m sorry, again,” he mumbles.

“It’s fine,” Techno says. Despite himself and the situation, he grins. “Besides, you said you were peer pressured.”

Ranboo blinks, looking… unsettled. “I--yeah, I guess I was.”

Techno laughs.

It’s something edging on hysterical.

* * *

There is a saying that Techno remembers, faintly, an old prayer to the gods that is supposed to lead one to safety. It’s a promise of rest and reconciliation after a long, arduous journey. It’s a wish, sent to the stars in the hopes that the gods will grant one their favor, just for a little while, to give them a bit of peace.

Staring up at the anvil dangling above him, as Quackity prattles on to a small crowd about his “crimes,” Techno opens his mouth, glimpsing the beginnings of stars in the darkening sky.

“Ad astra per aspera,” he murmurs. _To the stars, through difficulties._

He just wants to make it home.

He hears the flick of the lever and a familiar, shrill shriek as the anvil comes down. The pain is blinding, and Techno crumples beneath it, choking on his own blood and gasping out a rattling, pained breath before his heart stills. He leans into the darkness, embraces it, wishes he would respawn in bed at home without a scratch.

Instead, the totem burns and shatters, and he is painfully yanked back into the land of the living.

The chains snapped from the impact of the anvil, Techno pulls himself free of his restraints, clawing his way up and over the top of the iron bars, now that he’s got something to climb on. There’s shouting and the clanging of metal and Techno’s vision swims as a wave of pain hits him, and he sees netherite gleaming in dim torchlight and Phil’s wings spread wide--

There is a _shriek,_ so loud it’s deafening--Techno is afraid his ears might start fucking bleeding, in all honesty. It’s a sound he’s heard maybe once, twice before.

Wilbur, standing on top of the podium, snaps his mouth shut, and fires his crossbow into the fray.

_Quackity was killed by Wilbur Soot using [Chekhov’s Gun]._

An arm hooks around his torso and wings press close to him, guiding him away from the carnage that is the podium. Techno can’t quite think straight, doesn’t register what Phil’s saying--all he knows is that his chest fucking hurts, and he’s pretty sure most of his ribs are broken, and he’s still bleeding.

“C’mon, mate,” Phil says, nudging him onwards, “one step at a time.”

Techno takes a deep, painful, shuddering breath. One foot in front of the other.

He’s going to reach those damn stars, even if he bleeds out on the way.

* * *

“You know,” a voice says from behind him, “splitting from the group is pretty much always a bad idea, Tommy.”

Tommy’s blood runs cold.

He turns, slowly, axe materializing in hand to see what he dreads. Dream, standing tall and proud and entirely uninjured, smiles at him. Maskless.

“What,” he says, slowly, “do you want.”

Dream shrugs almost leisurely, stepping forward. Tommy steps back, dangerously close to the edge of the tower. He can feel the wind whipping at his back, biting at the back of his neck. He remembers a certain coat flapping in the wind in this very spot.

_(“I almost threw myself from the tower,” Wilbur says to him one night, a night where they’re talking very candidly about their mental health._

_“You were braver than me,” Tommy had mumbled, thinking of lava and burning._

_“I don’t think so, man,” Wilbur said. “You faced death and still came out on the other side living.”_

_“So did you.”_

_“No,” Wilbur said, shaking his head. “I faced death, and decided I_ liked _it.”)_

“I wanted to say hello,” Dream says, quietly and calmly. Tommy’s heart is pounding. His hands are shaking. God, this is awful.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Tommy grits out.

“I know,” Dream says, smiling. “That’s why I’m here.”

Tommy stares at him, expression guarded. What the hell does he want? He genuinely doesn’t know what he’s here for--he isn’t attacking. If he wanted him dead, Tommy would be dead right now, he’s sure of it. But why else would he _be_ here? He glances back down at the city below, at the now-empty, bloodied stage, at the small group of L’manburgians huddled at the base of the podium. Quackity and Fundy, from the looks of it.

Dream clears his throat. Tommy’s shoulders tense. He’s alone, right where Dream seems to want him. So many things could go wrong.

“Tommy,” Dream says, gently, “will you come with me?”

Every nerve in his body is alight with the need to run. He wishes he had wings, like Phil, wishes he could throw himself off the edge of this tower and soar away, never be caught again. He wants to feel the weightlessness of falling.

“Take another step closer, and I’ll throw myself off this fucking tower.” It is not an empty threat. He steps back, to the very edge of the platform to prove it.

Dream stares at him for what feels like an eternity. Finally, he steps back, and away.

“Run back to your _family,”_ Dream sneers.

Tommy feels the first few droplets of rain hit his face. His axe slips into his inventory, replaced by Techno’s trident. He revs the riptide enchantment, prepares to launch himself towards the portal.

“At least I have one to run back to,” he says, stiffly.

“Sure,” Dream drawls, lazily, eyes roaming over Tommy’s face. “Though I’m sure they’re doing fine without you. Tubbo certainly wasn’t, and look where that landed him.”

Tommy feels his shoulders tense. He growls, a low-set noise in the back of his throat, taking a threatening step forward. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Dream waves him off, pulling out his own trident. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll send your regards to the vault.”

He leaps off the edge of the tower, and is gone.

* * *

The wound is _bad,_ Phil finds, once they’ve reached the portal. He takes a moment to examine. There’s a messy gash all along the left side of Techno’s torso, from shoulder to hip. The bone is exposed, gore and viscera staining his ripped and ragged shirt--it’s practically falling off, it’s that torn. The magic of the totem and the nature of the wound are warring, it seems--the blood flow has slowed, but the wound has not knit itself together. It has simply slowed, and some of the ribs have mended themselves enough so that they aren’t crushing the lungs or splintering apart.

Regardless, it’s a mess. It’s something Phil needs to fix sooner rather than later. He pulls out a healing potion and a rag, and begins to clean around the edges of the wound, wiping away blood and dabbing the irritated, bloody tissue with as much healing potion as he can. Techno is surprisingly silent throughout it all.

When Phil spares a glance at his face, he’s staring at nothing, practically catatonic. It makes his stomach twist with guilt and fear and fury.

“Techno,” he says softly, “mate, hey, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Techno rasps without thought.

Well. That’s better than nothing. Phil continues cleaning the wound. He doesn’t dare breach the topic of Techno’s hair, yet, he knows that will be a whole mess when they get home and Techno feels safe enough to break down. For now, he does his best to soothe him and clean his wounds.

He hears footsteps, and nearly draws his sword--but it’s Wilbur’s familiar footsteps, and so he hums in greeting and finishes wiping blood from Techno’s shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Wilbur says, softly, and Phil knows it is directed at the wound.

“Yeah,” Phil murmurs in response, pulling out a strength potion. “Techno, can you drink this for me?”

He takes it with hands that shake so badly Phil’s afraid he’s going to spill it all, honestly. He gets a few sips in before pushing it back into Phil’s hands.

“M’gonna puke,” he mutters. Phil hums, sympathetically, rubbing his uninjured shoulder.

“We need to hurry, okay?” Phil nudges Techno to his feet. “Tommy’s on his way. We’re gonna head home, alright?”

Techno hums, absently, one hand trembling as it reaches up to work bloodied fingers through his hair. There’s the rapidfire patter of boots on blackstone, and Phil glances over his shoulder to see Tommy. Good, they can go--he sees Tommy’s expression twist with horror and fury at the sight of Techno, bloodied and practically half-dead.

He sees Wilbur murmur to Tommy, sees the way Tommy avoids his gaze.

(“You alright?” Wilbur whispers, noting the tense way Tommy carries himself.

“Fine,” Tommy lies.

Wilbur doesn’t have the energy or the time to press him further.)

It’s a difficult walk home, but without any pursuers and a good block of time, they make it. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, they make it back to Techno’s little cottage in the tundra. There will be time for questions, for long bouts of tears, buried in Phil’s arms.

But for now, Techno is safe.

He makes it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm for reading! catch me over on tumblr, twitter, & twitch @ cacowhistle for more content

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading!! if you like what i do here make sure to follow me on tumblr & twitter @ cacowhistle, and mayb even twitch under the same name!


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